Sell Out: Part Four

By the time I cart pickles back to Vortex Factory, my roommates are awake.

“Herschel’s in the house!” says the green-haired man. “Where’ve you been, killer?”

“I have been working,” I tell him, my voice low with misery. “But now I can work no more.”

“Cool,” the actress says. “Then you can get mimosas with us.”

“Thank you for invitation,” I say, “but today I have nothing to celebrate.”

I lock myself in room and put herring back in drawer. Then I lay the government documents on mattress. I understand parts of the forms, like “Name” and “Address.” But the rest confuses me and makes my head hurt.

I have dealt with American authorities before, when coming to Ellis Island. They made me wait in line for nineteen hours, then flipped up my eyelids and shoved wooden stick into my eyeballs. It was not great, but I would take it over this “W-2.”

It is almost nightfall when I hear knock on my door.

“Wassup, Hersch,” says the green-haired man. He is drunk from his celebrations.

“Wassup to you as well,” I say, politely.

“Some girl’s here to see you,” he tells me, his lips curled into giant grin.

I sigh. It is probably inspector to arrest me. I am thinking of jumping through window, when I look into the hallway and catch sight of yellow hair.

“Claire?” I say. “What are you doing here?”

She holds up empty pickle jar.

“Just returning this,” she says. “You weren’t at your usual spot.”

She passes me jar, which she has cleaned with soaps.

“You can keep it,” I say.

I mean for my voice to sound formal, but it comes out soft and broken. I have vowed to the world that I will be success, but setbacks have transformed me into liar. My stomach is sick with shame.

“Is everything O.K.?” Claire asks.

“Is fine,” I say.

She notices my legal forms, picks them up, and whistles.

“Whoa,” she says. “Herschel, you got nailed.”

She flips through them one at a time, shaking her head back and forth.

“These vendor forms are unconscionable,” she says. “Even a native English speaker would have problems understanding them. The entire system’s completely prejudicial against immigrants.”

I nod in agreement.

“It was very confusing when the Negress refused my bribe.”

Claire coughs.

“Herschel,” she says, putting hand onto my shoulder. “I think you should consider letting me help you with your business.”

I shake her off.

“I am not one who takes charity.”

“Everyone needs help sometimes, Herschel.”

“Not me,” I say. “Is fine. I will figure out forms on my own.”

“What’s your Social Security number?”

“Social what?”

She starts to unzip her pack. I sit on bed and sigh. It is too late now to stop her.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s going to be O.K.”

She reaches into bag and smiles.

“I’ve got my troll.”

Claire hands me her computer box and points at grid of numbers.

“There!” she tells me. “I made you a spreadsheet. This number’s all your fines, this number’s all your tax obligations, and this number’s the investments you’ll have to make to become health-code compliant.”

“What is this red number? With minus sign in front of it?”

She hesitates.

“Your profits.”

I begin to feel dizzy. We have been working several hours, without an interruption, and now I can no longer run from truth.

“The business has failed,” I admit to Claire. “There is no way for it to make moneys.”

“That’s not true,” she says. “You could increase production.”

I shake my head.

“Impossible. I am already filling cart up to brim with jars, and also my coat and pants.”

“Then you’ll need to get some workers,” she says, entering numbers into computer. “If you put six more carts on the street, you could easily net two thousand dollars every week.”

I hesitate.

“Maybe is smart idea,” I admit. “But workers cost.”

“You could get interns.”

I raise my eyebrows; this word is unfamiliar.

“Interns?”

It takes long time, but eventually she is able to explain this thing to me.

“So they are slaves,” I say. “And it is not illegal.”

She hesitates.

“Basically.”

She types business description onto Columbia University Web site. Within minutes, there are messages from students desiring to do my slave labor, all of it for free, in exchange for nothing.

“My God,” I say, my heart speeding up. “My God!”

I leap up from bed, my hands trembling with excitement. I can feel my legs begin to dance.

“Lye dye dye!” I sing. “Lye, dye dye dye, dye dye!”

I dance for some time.

“Claire!” I say, when I have caught my breath. “You have saved me!”

“It was nothing,” she says. “A piece of the cake, right?”

I take her hand and squeeze, even though she has no glove.

“You are good, strong help,” I say.

She bites her lip, her cheeks turning bright red.

“O.K., enough resting,” I tell her. “It is time to return to work.”

You cannot murder interns, but other than that, they are the same as mules. You can rob them, abuse them, debase them. There are no limits. When a man agrees to be intern, he is saying, “I am no longer human being with rights, I am like dog or monkey. Use me for labor until my body breaks and then consume all of my meats.”

I would sooner die than serve as intern. But for students of Columbia University, it is very popular. Within one day, a hundred men and women send me résumés in the hope that I will choose them as my slaves.

“How about this guy?” she says. “He’s a computer-science major. I bet he’d design us a Web site.”

“A what?”

“A site on the Web.”

“A what?”

“A Web site.”

I shrug.

“Is fine.”

sarahsstatueoflibertygarlicpickleswithsaltpicklecompany.com

“Herschel’s Dream”

Press Release by Ben Kobza, Media-Relations Intern

Herschel Rich came to this country with a bold mission: to achieve success without compromising his radical belief system. Now, after years of struggle, his dream is becoming a reality.

Herschel’s anti-corporate commitment to agricultural sustainability has won him accolades all over this city. The New York Times called his pickles a “hipster delicacy,” and Lady Gaga tweeted that his pickles “will make you see God.” Jay-Z recently announced that Herschel’s pickles will be the official pickles of the Brooklyn Nets, with their own stand at the Barclays Center.

But no one appreciates Herschel more than the young men and women who work for him.

“Herschel changed my life,” said Josh Herson, a rising junior at Columbia, who mans one of Herschel’s forty pickle carts. “Last year at this time I was thinking about becoming a banker or working for some soulless ad firm. But interning for Herschel has shown me that you don’t have to sell out to succeed.”

According to Claire Davenport, the company’s chief spokeswoman, pickles are only the beginning. Sarah’s Statue of Liberty Garlic Pickles with Salt intends to open a political-action center in Williamsburg, with a focus on immigration reform. And an art zine is being planned in collaboration with the Vortex Factory, the profits of which will be donated to worthy causes.

When I asked Herschel about these developments, he responded with the pithy poeticism that has made him such a cultural icon in Williamsburg.

“Everyone must return jar. Or they will be violenced.”

It’s hard to think of a better metaphor for our times. If we don’t give back to society -- if we don’t “return our jars” -- then our world may very well fall apart. Luckily, we have Herschel to help us hold it all together.

Strange things soon begin to happen. People start to camera me when I am walking around with cart. Sometimes, customers ask me to write my name on jar that they have bought. One day, newspaper lady asks me opinion on the Occupy movement. I do not know what this is, but do not want to seem ignorant, so I let Claire answer.

“Our company believes in the value of all human beings,” she says. “We stand for the ninety-nine per cent.”

She says many things like this to many newspaper people. Her words are crazy, but I do not stop her, because it seems to make more people buy our pickles. Every day, there are more and more customers lining up.

“This is so wonderful,” she says to me one night, while helping me count out the day’s moneys.

“Yes,” I say. “At this rate, I will soon be rich.”

Claire laughs like I have made joke. She tells me she is taking leave of absence from studies, to help me with company full time. I am very surprised.

“Simon has allowed this?”

“I finally broke up with him,” she says. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. Every day I was with him, it was like I was losing a piece of my soul. I decided, if I’m going to invest in a relationship, I want it to be with somebody authentic. Somebody humble and principled. And real.”

She looks into my eyes and smiles.

“You know what I mean, Herschel?”

I nod. I have not really been listening, because I was busy counting moneys, but she said my name, so I know it is my turn to speak.

“Yes,” I say. “Is fine.”

She reaches into lockbox and squeezes my hand. Eventually, she lets go, and I am able to go back to counting moneys.

One day, I am at my pickle stand—sorry, one of my pickle stands—when two men in black suits show up. They say they are from Walmart and are trying to connect with youth market. It is their hope that I will collaborate with them on a “multi-platform, Millennial-targeted marketing campaign.”

I do not understand, and so, as usual, I let Claire speak.

“We’re not interested,” she says. “Please leave.”

I nod with agreement; these men have bought no pickles and are holding up the line.

“If you do not want to buy jars,” I say, “you must get out of here!”

The men in suits shrug and walk away. As soon as they are out of sight, my interns begin to applaud for some reason. I am confused.

“That was amazing!” Claire says, as she throws her arms around me. “You totally blew off those corporate douchebags!”

“Is fine,” I say.

In the distance, I see the Walmart men climb into large, black car. It is very long, I notice, and also shiny. I begin to grow curious about them.

“Tell me, who is this Walmart?” I ask Claire.

“They’re one of the most evil corporations on earth,” she tells me. “They exploit immigrants, sell poisonous junk food, and destroy small businesses. It’s ridiculous. They think they can just show up here, write a check, and get whomever they want to do their bidding…”

I interrupt her.

“What is check?”

“It’s, like, money.”

At this point I am running. I run so fast both of my shoes fall off. Eventually, after several blocks of screaming and waving my arms in the air, I catch up to these wonderful Walmart people. They open their door and I leap inside car before they have time to change their mind.

The deal is very fair. They give me two hundred thousand dollars, enough to make down payment on house that I need to defeat Simon. In exchange, I give them rights to my likeness, name, face, and identity, to use however they want, in unlimited ads, forever.

I also agree to sell pickle company to Walmart. Their plan is to rename it “Brooklyn Hipster Pickles” and replace all ingredients with chemicals.

“Is fine,” I say.

In exchange for giving them company, I will receive thirty thousand shares of their precious, beautiful stock, which is valued at seventy-four dollars and thirty-four cents per share.

I announce the news next day at the Vortex Factory. My roommates are still sleeping, because it is not yet noon, but Claire and my interns are all present. It takes me long time to describe deal, because I cannot stop dancing. Eventually, though, after much dancing, I am able to get the words out.

I assume that everyone will join me in my dance, but instead they all stare at me with dead eyes. I have not seen such miserable faces since the Great Siege of Slupsk, when the children were told they must butcher and eat their pet rats.

“I can’t believe you took the money,” Claire whispers. “How could you just sell out like that?”

There are tears in her eyes; slowly, it dawns on me why she is so upset.

“I forgot to haggle,” I admit. “It was stupid. I should have demanded even more of their sweet, sweet dollars.”

Claire bangs her tiny fist against the wall.

“How could you be so selfish?” she says. “It’s disgusting! I mean…what would Sarah say?”

I squint at her, confused. Sarah would be proud, of course. She would not join my dance, because her leg was lame and it shamed her. But she would clap her hands in time while I did my rich-man jig.

“I do not understand why you are upset,” I admit to Claire. “Is it because you want some portion of my moneys?”

She glares at me, her nostrils flared like angry horse.

“We didn’t join your company for money,” she seethes. “We joined because we believed in you!”

I look over at the interns.

“So none of you want money?”

They look at the ground, their faces slightly red.

“I wouldn’t mind some money,” one of them mumbles.

“Is fair,” I say, after some thought. I do math in my head. “I will give each worker bonus of eighty-five dollars.”

The interns cheer.

“You’re pathetic,” Claire says to me.

“O.K., O.K.,” I say. “Eighty-six dollars. But that is final.”

She starts to pack up all of her belongings: her folding computer, her other computer, her tablet machine, her shiny talking phone. Something gradually occurs to me.

“Oh,” I say. “I forgot. You are wealthy.”

Claire turns around and stares at me. Her face is pale.

“Excuse me?”

“That is why you do not care about money. Because you already have so much of it. For you, all of life is happy game.”

Her eyes begin to twitch.

“That is so rude.” she says. “Life’s about more than money, Herschel!”

“Yes,” I say. “For those who already have it.”

She shakes her head with disgust.

“You know what?” she tells me. “You’re just as bad as Simon.”

It is six weeks later when I see my great-great-grandson. I have moved into wide brownstone on his block, so I knew such a meeting was inevitable. But the encounter is still surprising, because it is four in the morning.

At first we pretend not to see each other. But there are no other people around, and it is hard to keep up the ruse.

“Hello,” I say eventually, from across our shared courtyard.

“Hello,” he says. “Nice chain.”

I smile proudly. I had always dreamed of owning jewelry, so after buying house and several crates of herring, I treated myself to necklace. It is simple, modest piece, just fifty golden links and my name spelled out in gems, with the “S” switched to dollar sign, so that it reads “Her$chel.”

“I got it inside black-man store,” I tell him. “They are the only ones who would give me what I wanted.”

“Congrats,” Simon says. “I’m glad you’re doing so well.”

I nod. I am waiting for him to ask me what chain costs, but for some reason he does not do this.

“The chain cost seven thousand dollars,” I inform him.

Simon nods.

“Congrats,” he says again.

There is something I want to ask him, but I do not know how to say it.

“Simon,” I say, “is there something wrong with the air on this street?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“The air?”

“Ever since I move to this street, I have been having problems with my breathing. It happens when I am trying at night to sleep. My heart becomes fast and it is like I cannot fill up my lungs. I think there is possibly poison in the air… or something.”

Simon nods.

“They’re called panic attacks,” he says. “I get them all the time. They probably run in the family.”

He takes out silver flask.

“Try some of this,” he says.

“Do I look like Irishman?”

“Just think of it as medicine.”

I close my eyes, hold my nose, and drink from the bottle. The taste is horrible, but after several swallows, I must admit, my breathing becomes easier.

“I do not understand what is happening to me,” I admit to Simon. “Tonight I ate eleven cans of herring, one after the other. Then I took hot bath with soap, like fancy king. But I could not enjoy any of it. My heart kept racing. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the dying men of Slupsk. I imagined them pointing at me, with angry faces, cursing me for having so much pleasure.”

“Sounds like you’re getting a guilt complex.”

“What is guilt complex?”

“It’s something that happens to rich people.”

“What is the cure?”

Simon shrugs. “You could donate some money to charity.”

“Yes, O.K., but that is not going to happen, so tell me other options.”

Simon thinks. “Well, you could try to make a difference somehow.”

I think of Claire and the people in the Vortex Factory and how they are trying to change the world. “I have no M.F.A.,” I say, “or Ph.D.”

“You could go get one,” he suggests. “I mean, they’re expensive, but I’m sure you could afford it.”

“I would rather have more jewels,” I admit.

I sit down on stoop and massage my temples.

“Perhaps I will become freegan?” I suggest. “Can freegans eat herring?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Never mind.” It is very cold, and so I decide to take more sips from flask. “Perhaps we pray.”

Simon raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“We must pray,” I tell him. “That is why we feel guilt. We have received so many blessings, far more than we deserve, and it is wrong that we have not said thanks.”

“Herschel, I already told you. I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides…”

He averts his eyes.

“What is it?” I say.

He looks down at his feet.

“Well, I’ve never done it before. I’m not even sure I know how.”

I lay my palm upon his shoulder.

“There is no wrong way to pray to Hashem,” I whisper. “Just speak what is in your heart.”

Simon remains still for long time. Then he nods softly, closes his eyes, and kneels.

“Why are you kneeling?” I shout. “Are you Christian now? Stand up, before God sees you!”

He jumps to his feet, his face bright red.

“I thought you said there was no wrong way to pray.”

“Yes, well, O.K., but you cannot kneel! That is like slapping God’s face. It is horrible what you have done.”

I spit on the ground.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Is fine, is fine,” I say.

I catch my breath and lay my palm again upon his shoulder.

“Just close your eyes,” I whisper. “And speak your heart. Remember, there is no wrong way to pray.”

Simon nods, closes his eyes, and begins to speak.

“Dear God—”

“Are you insane?” I shout. “You would slap God’s face with English words?”

“That was prayer for bread,” I say. “It makes no sense why you would say it. Where is the bread? I see no bread here. That was madness, your prayer for bread.”

“How about this?” Simon suggests. “I’ll tell you what I want to say to God and you can translate it for Him.”

I think about this plan.

“Is fine,” I say. “Begin.”

He sits down beside me and closes his eyes.

“Where do I start?” he murmurs. “O.K. Uh… tell him, I’m sorry I played 2 Live Crew at my bar-mitzvah party. And that I haven’t been to synagogue in years…and that I pretended to be Christian once in college to get free barbecue…”